This Moment in September
by Kristine
Summary: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.
1. Just the One Blanket

This Moment in September  
  
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.  
  
Be sure to leave a review, and take a look at the author's note at the bottom. Thanks, and hope you enjoy. Another note: I can't get italics to work when I upload (suggestions, anyone?) so what is supposed to be in italics is surrounded by asterisks (*) instead.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.  
  
Chapter One: Just the One Blanket  
  
There are still the papers to file. Frowning slightly, Rachel looks around her office, papers and folders scattered casually across the desk's surface, and debates whether to take the time to tackle the quite unpleasant yet quite needed task of filing now or tomorrow. The choice is easy, really. Tomorrow, she decides. *Definitely* tomorrow. Order can wait for another day. She has to stifle a giggle; the thought of Monica's face if she ever uttered that statement in her presence is so amusing that she considers doing it. For now, she gathers her jacket and purse, on the way out saying a quick goodbye to Gavin and her assistant, a new wide-eyed girl who looks so young she could pull off saddle shoes.  
  
The double glass doors open onto one of those splendid New York evenings so clear that the sounds, colors, and smells that float through Manhattan seem fuller, rounder, more at peace with themselves. It is late September, but you wouldn't know it from the weather. The remnants of an Indian summer still hang in the air, and tinge the crisp autumn with a warmth as sweet as a just-ripened orange. Rachel plunges into Madison Avenue, eager to gulp down the fresh air, the scents of September, and the jostle of midtown's crowd, whose eyes reflect notions of kicking their shoes off, of their families, and dinner on the table. All thoughts of hailing a cab are banished despite her high-healed Prada shoes and the need to get home quickly. The joy of the city is simply too much to resist.  
  
She looks at her watch, smiling. Five o'clock. Two hours and five minutes from the start of the game.  
  
Flashback: Several days earlier  
  
The door to apartment 20 flies open, and an excited Joey bounces in waving a white envelope, face lit up like fireworks off the Brooklyn Bridge on the fourth of July. The other five, plus a now three year old Emma, who is pretending to read poems out of Where the Sidewalk Ends (which Phoebe gave her and has put to music), look expectantly from the kitchen. The gang still gathers at Monica and Chandler's apartment, as little has changed in their living arrangements. Ross still lives across the street in his apartment, which he now shares with Charlie, and Phoebe and Mike are engaged and living in Phoebe's apartment. Joey still lives faithfully in apartment 19 across from Monica and Chandler, and Rachel and Emma live next door, in apartment 17. Roughly two years ago, shortly after the trip to Barbados, Rachel and Joey's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kim, moved out of the city, and Rachel jumped at the chance to give her and Joey space. Just the tension and prying eyes surrounding the pair was reason enough to move, even if it was just next door. Not that she could bare to move much further.  
  
"I got tickets!" Joey sang, at any moment threatening to break out into Chandler's happy dance. "Woohoo! I got tickets!"  
  
"To what, a Broadway musical?" says Chandler, mouth curled up into his knowing half-grin. "42nd Street, perhaps?"  
  
Joey pauses on the brink of dancing. "Wha . . . . ? What the hell is 42nd Street? Dude, you don't need tickets to go to Times Square!" Rachel watches as the others share humored glances so subtle and brief they are almost undetectable. She has long ago chosen to not participate in making explicit this implicit assumption that Joey is the least bright of the six. At least he knows where Times Square is, she thinks.  
  
"So then where are you going, Joey?" asks Rachel.  
  
The excitement flows back into Joey's face. "A Yankee game! Yeah, my sister Gina and her husband can't make it to the game next week, so they gave me the tickets." He looks guiltily around, "Who wants to come with me? I only have one extra."  
  
"I do! I do!" Emma squeals, her little hand shooting above her head of loose dark curls.  
  
"Emma, honey, do you really want to go? You don't even know about baseball, and it'll be really late at night," says Ross to his daughter, as always giving the most logical explanation possible. Sometimes Rachel wonders if is capable of an illogical thought, but then reminds herself that this is the man who dated Janice for a week and claims to have achieved a state of unagi. Op, no, wrong again--that would be irrational, not illogical.  
  
"I do too know about baseball," she retorts. "Joey taught me." Rachel has to laugh at her indignant look. Emma gets up off of Rachel's lap, and, setting Shel Silverstein aside, stands as if holding a baseball bat, her feet shoulder's width apart, elbows out, smacking imaginary bubble bum, looking at Joey. She looks almost comic doing this in a yellow skirt and peasant blouse, but her eyes are serious under her brow. Seeing this, Joey gazes at her sideways and gives her a pitcher's sneer, fingering an imaginary baseball behind his back before throwing a slider in slow motion. Emma swings, body twisting in a perfect follow-through, sending the pretend ball towards right field, and no doubt into the bleachers. It would be plain to anyone that this is not the first time the two have done this. Out of the corner of her eye, as everyone laughs and applauds, Rachel can detect that Ross' too-wide smile is hiding something, something unsaid yet palpable, that has for two years kept a rift between her and Joey.  
  
"Good-bye baseball!" yells Joey as he and Emma drop their stances. He rushes forward, swinging Emma off her feet, sending her hair flying and laughter flowing light and easy out of her mouth. Rachel looks at the two of them, so alike in their bright eyes and happy grins.  
  
"So can I, Joey? Can I come?" she says, giving him a puppy dog face that she could have gotten from either of her parents.  
  
"Actually, Ems," he says and eyes Rachel, who gives him a nod, "I think it'd be better if you stayed home for this one, but I'll tell you what. How about you and me go up to Central Park next weekend and practice that beautiful swing of yours?" Emma's face lights up.  
  
"Okay!" she says, "but only if we get hotdogs, too."  
  
"Deal." Joey sets her down and she scampers off to bug Monica in the kitchen. "So," he says, looking around. "Who's free next Tuesday for a Yankee game?"  
  
(End of Flashback)  
  
As it turns out, only one person was: Rachel. Tonight, the others would all be off to their other obligations: Monica at the restaurant, Chandler having a dinner meeting downtown, Ross and Charlie off to some "special paleontology lecture" at NYU, and Phoebe declared Emma could stay with her for the night because "those damn Yankees get paid millions of dollars for hitting a stupid ball and certain other people are stuck massaging for the rest of their lives!" And so Rachel, despite the fact that the whole of her baseball knowledge is based on A League of Their Own with Gina Davis, will sit in Yankee Stadium with Joey tonight. Just Joey. Her heart gives a little flutter and she smiles, watching contentedly as burnt orange and yellow leaves drift from the trees and splash the sidewalk with their fanciful colors. She suddenly has a vision of herself, Emma, and Joey bent over them, trying to find a perfect one to press inside a book. Her smile turns whimsical.  
  
"You know," comes a familiar voice from behind her, "it's rare to find a person who delights in this city as much as you. Have you considered a long-term relationship?" Rachel spins around to find Chandler, clad in a handsome gray suit that brings out the swimming pool blue of his eyes, smiling warmly at her. More often than not, they bump into each other on the way home from work, and if the weather permits, walk toward home side by side until their feet get too tired and they have to take a cab or the subway.  
  
"Well," she replies, letting him guide her off the curb and into 58th Street. "I think this city is my long-term relationship." Chandler laughs. "Oh sure, laugh hard, Bing!" she says, but the glint in her eye tells Chandler that she is teasing. "At least your long-term relationship is with a person. *And* you don't have to share her with eight million other people."  
  
"Well, Monica has enough personality for eight million people. Does that count?" They pass a shoe store window with perfectly straight rows of designer shoes arranged on a clean white display tables. Rachel stops dead to bend and examine them.  
  
"Oh my God! Gucci's fall line!" she squeals. "Chandler, we have to go in!" She tugs on his hand, as if this will persuade him to give up the inevitable hour that Rachel will want to spend in there.  
  
"Uh, 'have to'? Rach, as much as I love Italians and their shoes, I'd have to say, umm, no," says Chandler, thinking that as much as Rachel has changed over the years, in some ways she is endearingly just the same.  
  
"Please? Oh, pretty please? We'll get you something, too!"  
  
"Oh?" says Chandler. "Well in that case, can it be these lovely black pumps, front row, second pair from the end?" he points while pretending to look longingly at the shoes. "You know, I really don't give you enough credit for knowing my taste in ladies shoes."  
  
"Well not from here, silly! I mean, what would Monica think?" She pauses. "And 'black pumps'? How did you know these were pum-you know what, forget it. I don't wanna know. But please come in with me? Just for a second." Preparing this as her last attempt, she looks up at Chandler and pouts slightly, bottom lip looking positively irresistible, her soft blue eyes somehow becoming softer and rounder.  
  
"Oh no! You're not getting me that way!" Chandler says, shaking his head and taking a step back. "That may work like a charm on Joey, but I'm not falling for the Rachel pout. That's the end of him, not me."  
  
"Alrigh . . . . " she begins, but then it hits her. The shoes are suddenly forgotten. "The . . . the end of-? What? What do you mean it works like a charm on Joey?"  
  
"N . . . . Nothing," stutters Chandler. "I didn't say 'Joey.' Or the word 'charm,' especially not in the same sentence . . . Are you okay, are you sure you don't have a fever?" He puts his palm to her forehead, but she brushes it impatiently away.  
  
"Chandler!" Rachel stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk on Madison Avenue with hands on her hips, trying her best to look surprised at something deep down she has known all along. But Chandler doesn't notice; he has gone into panic mode.  
  
"No? No fever?" he asks, beginning to pace, much to the annoyance of some passersby. "Maybe it was something you ate? Or the weather! You know, these fantastically clear fall days can really test a person's hearing."  
  
"Chandler!" says Rachel, her voice raising a little to match her impatience. "I do *not* have a fever, my stomach does *not* hurt, and the weather is just *fine,* so can you please, please . . . . " And then her voice turns soft, her eyes pleading. "Can you please just tell me what you meant by that?" Chandler stops pacing and closes his eyes, thinking that this is as bad as, if not worse than, the crystal duck incident. He lets out a groan. There's really no way to undo the damage.  
  
"I should just stop talking, *forever.*" He resignedly opens his eyes and finds Rachel standing before him, in her hopefulness looking more vulnerable and yet more alive than he can ever remember her being.  
  
"Rach, I . . . I think you already know."  
  
"I need to hear it, Chandler. You have no idea . . . . . These past two years, I've wondered." He nods, understanding.  
  
"He's never stopped loving you, Rach. Not for a second." Rachel gives a slight nod and she bits her lip, trying to stop tears from welling in her eyes and her smile from becoming too wide, but fails miserably. For once she is at a loss for words. Smiling at her smile, Chandler wraps one arm around her, using the other to hail a cab. "Taxi!"  
  
"No, that's okay Chandler, I think I'd rather walk a bit more," says Rachel as a yellow cab pulls up beside them. "But you go ahead." Off of Chandler's dubious look, she adds, "Don't worry, hon, I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you slipped."  
  
"Yeah?" he says, opening the back door to the taxi. Rachel nods, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh good. Listen, I'll see you later." And after a pause, "Have fun at that game tonight." A sly smile. "Let Joey bring just the one blanket . . . . It should be cold tonight." He pulls the door shut and winks as the cab pulls into a sea of yellow and black, taxis and town cars, leaving Rachel to slowly grasp the meaning of his last words . . . . . *Let Joey bring just the one blanket.* At least Chandler is on her and Joey's side. But then again, he was never much for the order of things, fate, or the way things have to be.  
  
Rachel turns towards downtown and resumes her walk down Madison avenue alone, thinking of Chandler, his revelation ringing clear and nagging in her ear. Was he right? Her thoughts drift slowly, almost reluctantly to Joey, as if him in her mind's eye is as potent a thing as him in the flesh would be, standing before her, off-set with his dark hair against the ink-blue sky. Has she dwelled on him too long these past two years? Or has it been, as Chandler seems to think, simply working up to this day, this moment in September, here on the sidewalk on Madison Avenue, yellow leaves playing tag in the wind?  
  
There's no denying the connection that was once between them, she thinks, listening to the rhythmic clomp of her shoes against the pavement. Perhaps it could be there again, if she let it. She can still feel its traces, a certain electricity that makes the air shimmer whenever she and Joey are talking side by side on the orange couch in the coffeehouse, the steam from their cups rising between them, or when they both grab for the TV Guide and their fingers graze and they pause, staring at their touching fingers, sharing a secret that is unsaid even between themselves. It's all there, all that happiness, just waiting to be rediscovered.  
  
She had discovered it once, in Barbados. She remembers it perfectly. Joey had knocked and entered, and he had kissed her right there in the doorway of room 1202. A soft and beautiful kiss, full of promises and hope. He had pulled away, she remembers, all too soon, and as her mind caught up wither stirring emotions, she had muttered a small "oh," and searched his eyes, floating light and blissful on his gaze. Then, after brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead, he had kissed her again, sending her pulse and her spirits soaring, her whole body tingling with his every touch. Yes, she remembers, his tongue had felt its way into her mouth, and she wasted no time meeting it with hers as they kissed, trying to get as much of each other's warm, sweet mouths as possible.  
  
It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and they had seemed, momentarily, wonderfully alone, as if the late afternoon would stretch on into forever, and their whole lives lay before them, open and trusting and lovely. But then something had happened, only minutes after the door was kicked closed, and the moment of happiness remained just that: a moment. It was over before it had even begun . . . .  
  
Flashback: Barbados, Room 1202, Joey is kicking the door shut.  
  
Joey kicks the door shut, closing them off from the rest of the world, and they continue on until breathlessness takes over. Rachel gives a moan of protest when Joey pulls away for the second time.  
  
"You came back," she says, and smiles wonderingly up at him, running her hand along the line of his brow and down his cheek, which sends Joey leaning in for another kiss, pleasure shooting through him as Rachel almost absentmindedly toys with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with aching slowness. Joey again pulls away.  
  
"I had to, Rach," he says. "I had to." He looks at her and for probably the millionth time wonders at the beauty of her eyes. They seem to change color depending on the light, and at the moment he can detect a hint of gold shooting through them.  
  
"I know, sweetie, but I still can't believe it," she says, parting his shirt and lightly stroking the bare skin under it. Joey shivers in pleasure. Inquisitiveness finds its way into her eyes and she asks, "What happened? Why are you back?"  
  
"Aw, you didn't want me to come back?" teases Joey, and pokes her in the stomach, causing a giggle to pour unchecked out of her mouth. She catches his hand with hers and their fingers intertwine.  
  
"Oh, I think all that kissing pretty much answers your question," she says, but then turns serious again. "So why did you come back? What about Ross?" Joey gives a short laugh.  
  
"Yeah, I think, I *think,* Ross will be okay with the whole thing," he says, and gives Rachel a knowing look. She frowns slightly, taking a step back from Joey to get a better look at his expression.  
  
"Okay, what are you not telling me? Did you talk to Ross or is this one of Phoebe's weird karma-psychic-I-can-see-the-future things?"  
  
"What? Oh, no, it's not that. The thing is, when I went down to the lobby to see about a room for tonight, I, ummm, saw Ross and Charlie kissing."  
  
"You --- you what?" says Rachel, quite shocked.  
  
"Yeah, they were pretty much going at it right there next to the concierge desk, and not hiding too well behind that bush, I'll tell ya." He chuckles. Rachel doesn't.  
  
"Wait, are you trying to tell me that you saw your very, very recent-- we're talking less that an hour here-- ex-girlfriend kissing your best friend in the lobby and from that you decided to kiss me? Out of *spite* for them??" She looks demandingly yet pleadingly at Joey, her fiery eyes begging him to disagree with her.  
  
"Rach, it's not what you think-" he begins desperately, but is cut off.  
  
"You . you guys kissed?" says a voice from the door, and Joey and Rachel spin around to find Ross standing in the doorway, looking utterly taken aback, jealousy beginning to boil hot and dangerous in his eyes as he takes in their flushed cheeks, guilty eyes, and Joey's unbuttoned shirt. "Oh my God."  
  
(End of Flashback)  
  
That was the beginning of everything, thinks Rachel as she continues her walk. Or the end, depending on how you choose to look at it. The light at 46th turns green and Rachel steps into the street, wrapping her coat more tightly around her as a cool and slightly damp autumn breeze catches up with her from the east. It was the trip to Barbados, more than anything else, that has determined her life for the past two years. She left the island with as many questions as when she arrived, but more doubts. In the end, tensions and emotions ran high, and she had been left with an aching feeling that Joey had kissed her partly out of spite for Charlie, whom he had genuinely liked, and with the equally horrible feeling that if this wasn't the case and she and Joey did start a relationship, Ross would certainly not be able to handle it. There was also Emma to think about. And to top it off, word of their kiss spread quickly throughout the rest of the gang, sending mostly well-meaning, but nonetheless prying questions hurling towards them from all directions, seeming to step mercilessly on the sacredness in which Rachel regarded the happenings in Barbados. It was as if her happiness had been trampled on. Now their minutes together are nothing more than a memory, but every time Rachel chances to lock eyes with Joey she can feel traces his lips silky and warm on hers, the pressure of his firm body against hers, his tantalizing, dewy breath hot on her neck, his fingers kneading the skin of her shoulders, arms, and back, his hands in her hair. He has not failed to leave his mark on her. He has left it in her very skin, in the blue depths of her eyes, and on her heart.  
  
*Just the one blanket*.  
  
Rachel smiles. She bends to pick up a crisp, crimson colored leaf for Emma and twirls it between her fingers, watching as the edges blur by like children on a merry-go-round. Perhaps she will just have to make her own visions come true.  
  
End of chapter one.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Thanks for reading and please leave a review! I found this story extremely difficult to write, so further chapters will mainly rest on the reader's interest (otherwise I may move on, for now, to other stories). And be sure to tell me if you like the style and the pace of it, as it may be a bit more measured (okay fine, slower, I admit it!) than most fics. Thank you! :0)  
  
Oh, and I promise that Joey will surface soon. I know it's a bit strange to have a Joey/Rachel story when Joey is, for the moment, missing in action.  
  
Okay, and another note I feel is needed, although it may not be relevant . . . my proofreader said some phrases read too much like the book The Hours, which I have yet to read (or see the movie), but I don't really want to change anything, so if there are any too-close resemblances, I apologize, and it is certainly not intended.  
  
Kristine 


	2. Little Miss Soriano

This Moment in September  
  
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.  
  
Okay, so I haven't updated this story for a good six months, and a lot can happen in six months. Scratch that, a lot DID happen in six months. (You may want to read, or re-read chapter one before you read this chapter - it'll make more sense.) Please understand that I started this story pre- season 10, so the present season ten does not exist in this semi-alternate universe, and I have provided flashbacks that serve to fill in some holes. Thanks, and enjoy! And review!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. And I *still* wouldn't be Bright, Kauffman or Crane if you paid me.  
  
Chapter 2: Little Miss Soriano  
  
It is not quite 5:30, and already the streetlights are blinking on, pale and useless in September's most brilliant evening, the trees that line the street erupting in oranges and plumb reds, spilling their leaves as freely as children do secrets, carelessly and with little regard to where they may fall. Joey waits patiently for a string of taxi cabs to pass before crossing the street, the sunlight bouncing off their hoods and producing an even more sparkling shade of yellow in defiance of the dull gray of the pavement below. The Village is awash with long pink shadows, the summer reluctant to leave its warmth behind, and let the sky sink into the duskier hues of autumn.  
  
Only an hour and a half before the first pitch is thrown, thinks Joey. Only an hour and a half before we're at Yankee Stadium.  
  
We.  
  
Rachel and I.  
  
Despite himself, Joey allows a tiny grin tweak the corners of his mouth; he hasn't been alone with her for a long time. Because of this, tonight seems like a special privilege, and he suddenly feels like a child who is allowed to stay up an extra hour before bedtime and doesn't have to drink his milk with dinner.  
  
At last Christopher Street is free of taxis, and Joey crosses almost reluctantly onto Bedford Avenue, a white plastic bag swinging at his side. If there's anything he's learned these past two years, it is to walk home slowly, and let himself be swept in by the continuous crowd pulsing its way through the streets. Somehow it provides a sort of comfort, a sense of reassurance and belonging, the lone constant in his life. In the crooked streets of Greenwich Village, alive with street musicians, coffeehouses, vendors, and jazz clubs, it is hard to feel alone. It is hard to remember that he has no one to hurry home to.  
  
He waived that right two years ago, thinks Joey as he passes a small French café, Billie Holliday's gently quavering voice drifting out of the doorway. A man with graying hair is buying daisies at a flower stand, handing the vendor some bills. "They're my wife's favorite," he says, smiling. The vendor gives a knowing nod, and tips his cap, the image of a 1940s black and white film, as the man moves along ahead of Joey, carrying the flowers at his side.  
  
He waived that right, too. He can no longer rush home, stopping briefly to buy flowers, Chinese take-out for two, and a double tall nonfat to-go latte with from Central Perk, Rachel's signature drink. There would be no one home to receive such things. And bringing them next door has never felt quite the same.  
  
Two years this October, thinks Joey. Early October, when you finally have to give in and turn the heat on in the apartment. That's when Rachel moved out. The week he had to turn on the furnace.  
  
Flashback: Roughly two years ago, the day Rachel moved out.  
  
"Joey!"  
  
For the third time now, he can hear Monica's voice, high-pitched and exasperated, coming through the door of apartment 20. He has been hiding here out all day, now-warm beer in hand, pacing short circuits on the balcony, unable to face the festivities of moving day: the suitcases, people delivering Rachel's new furniture (all from Pottery Barn with the exception of one end table from Anthropologie), Monica's scale model of apartment 17, accurate down to the placement of lamps and vases, and his friends' faces, completely oblivious to the pain of it all. Chandler would perhaps shoot him concerned glances, checking to make sure he is alright, but Ross would barely be able to contain his glee at the move, Monica would be annoyed that he wasn't helping enough, Phoebe would probably be writing a song about it all, and Rachel would look everywhere but at him.  
  
The sooner this day is over, the better.  
  
"Joey! Rachel wants to see you in her apartment."  
  
Monica's voice is nearer and more exasperated, and Joey can hear her stomping her way across the hall, but makes no move to climb through the window and open the door, and continues pacing. The door opens, and Monica enters looking annoyed, her hair swept up in a messy ponytail, blue eyes blazing, scale model in hand.  
  
He is nowhere in sight. She pauses, looking around, confused by his absence.  
  
"Joey?" she says in a rather small voice.  
  
Cautiously, as if exploring a stranger's apartment, she tiptoes to the bathroom. The door is open, nobody inside.  
  
Guest bedroom: empty.  
  
"Joey, are you here?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Who are you looking for?" comes Chandler's voice as he enters the apartment, hands in his pockets and a unsettled expression on his face, evidently looking for any excuse to get away from all the moving.  
  
"I can't find Joey. Can you check the coffeehouse?"  
  
Relief washes over him. "Oh dear God yes!" he says, grabbing his coat. "Thank you! Just please don't send me back to Rachel's place. Ross is so giddy she's moving that it's only a matter of time before he explodes with sheer glee." He bites his lip. "I just don't want to be there when it happens."  
  
Monica gives a half-laugh. "Okay, just check the coffeehouse for me then, will you?"  
  
"Consider it done," replies Chandler and hurries out the door, whistling, as Monica heads toward the balcony to check.  
  
She sticks her head out the window. Joey stops pacing, and slowly turns to face Monica. Standing there, he looks drained, as if someone has siphoned all his energy away and all that is left are his eyes, shining as if on the brink of spilling tears. Monica immediately softens, and setting down the scale model, she makes her way over to Joey, enveloping him in a hug. He even smells like sadness.  
  
"Oh my god, Joey, are you going to be alright?"  
  
*No,* thinks Joey. * I'm not going to be okay. Everything is going to suck.*  
  
He gives a shrug. Monica nods, understanding.  
  
"Um, Rachel wants to see you in her apartment." She pulls back, looking him in the eye. "Joey, honey, you have to talk to her sometime. She hates leaving, she really does."  
  
"Is it over? The move, I mean. Is it over?" he asks, not sure what answer, yes or no, would be the better one.  
  
"Yeah, it's over." And the, Monica breaks into a smile, excitement lighting up her eyes. She holds up the scale model. "Everything's in place. Her apartment looks *exactly* like this," she says, her voice rising an octave, gleeful little giggle just waiting to erupt from her mouth. Joey can see her fight to contain it. "See?" she says, pointing. "This is the kitchen and living room area."  
  
Joey squints at the miniature couches, chairs, counters, and coffee tables superglued in place.  
  
"A-and this?" She says, turning the model. "This is Rachel's bedroom. Yeah, see this is her dresser, and that's her closet, and her bed. Look! I even drew her *exac* sheets! And pillows! And um, well I know this isn't furniture, but her hamper is in that corner by the closet . . ."  
  
Joey sighs, images of all of Rachel's things all perfectly in place in another apartment. Her closet, her dresser, her bed, even her *hamper,* for crying out loud, settling themselves in a place that he cannot call home, in a place that he is not meant to be in, in a place where *she* went to get away from *him.* He closes his eyes, attempting to shut out Monica's rambling, frustration welling up inside him.  
  
"You-you know what, Mon? I'll go talk to her." He interrupts, and gives her a weak smile, brushing past her and through the window. "I'll catch you later."  
  
"But I haven't even told you about her shoe rack! I made it out of toothpicks!" Monica calls after him. Sighing, she turns back to her scale model, smiling at it. "Ahhhh, so perfect," she breathes.  
  
Joey makes his way across the hall to apartment 17, his feet literally dragging.  
  
Monica was right, though, he had to talk to her sometime.  
  
And "sometime" was now.  
  
He reaches for the door handle, and pauses, thinking better of it. He raises his hand, and knocks, the five taps reverberating in his ears. Within seconds, the door swings open, a worn out Rachel in track pants and a sweatshirt on the other side, Joey's personal favorite picture of her. She smiles nervously, all too aware that he has been absent all day.  
  
"Hey there, Joe. You know, you don't have to knock. It's just me." She shoos him in, grabbing his wrist and tugging him through the door.  
  
Joey nods. "Yep," he says, surprised at himself. He is barely able to contain his general and pervasive dislike of the situation as a whole. "It's just you. And I'm just *me.* I get it." He brushes past her. "Nice place, I like all the new furniture," he says, and Rachel winces as his sudden joviality.  
  
*Fake,* she thinks. *He's being fake, fake, fake.*  
  
"Joey, that's not what I meant - I just meant that you're welcome here anytime, and you don't have to knock. I mean, we didn't knock when we were both living next door, right?"  
  
"Right," he says, some of Chandler's sarcasm seeping into his voice.  
  
"Joey, come on," she says, and he looks at her, her eyes pleading, sad. He hadn't noticed that before. "Nothing has to change."  
  
Joey shakes his head, and gestures at the apartment, all of its furniture in its place, lamps turned on and casting shadows of a glowing yellow, framed pictures hanging on the walls. "Rach, *everything* has changed. You even said it yourself. We *don't* live next door anymore, together. You moved. You-you bought all this stuff. You have your own place, your own life, and I have mine."  
  
Rachel's eyes popped, and her breath caught in her throat in surprise. *Was he really saying this?*  
  
"Is - is that really what you want? *Separate* lives?"  
  
Joey turns. "Do you?" It came out more accusatory than he had intended.  
  
"What? No, Joey, that's not why I moved!" Exasperated, she takes his elbow and leads him over to the couch, pulling him down to sit beside her.  
  
Joey follows her, the contact of her fingers touching his skin sending his head spinning. He suppresses the urge to pull her to him, and for the millionth time, his mind starts to replay their kiss in Barbados.  
  
"Joey, I didn't move to get away from you. I moved -" she pauses, looking down at her fidgeting fingers twisting a ring around one of her fingers. "I moved because - well, you've seen the way people stare at us when we head back to our apartment, like a thousand questions are just *waiting* to tumble out of their mouths. It's like they're wondering, 'Are they doing it? Are they doing it? Are they together? What about Ross?' And-and I just felt like it was too much." Again, she pauses, this time searching Joey's face for recognition. "I - I didn't move for us, Joey, I moved for *them.* I know it's not a very good reason. But, well, and Emma's getting bigger . . . I don't know . . ." she trails off at last, her cheeks growing pale, a frustrated calm taking over.  
  
Joey looks at her, taking her in. Her frame, petite, hesitant, and on the verge of trembling, table lamp throwing golden light onto golden hair, the careful placement of candles, vases, pictures of the gang and of Emma, fashion magazines and a few novels lining a small bookcase, a play corner for Emma complete with a child-sized table with drawers for toys, crayons, and stuffed animals. And then it hits him. This place is quintessentially Rachel. It radiated her. And she had never had this before, a whole apartment that she could call her own. He found himself smiling.  
  
"Rach," he said. "I understand."  
  
And that's all it took. In a split second she had hugged him.  
  
End of Flashback.  
  
That had to have been one of the worst days of his adult life, thinks Joey as he reaches his apartment building, and shakes his head, determined to focus instead on baseball, Yankee Stadium, and the thought of Rachel leaning in to ask the name of the players.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The Village, drenched in the golden light of early evening, rings with relaxed contentment as Rachel steps out of the taxi cab, handing the driver some bills. She had given up around 43rd Street and hailed a cab. Although she would have loved to give into the freshness of the autumn air and the almost irresistible pull of Manhattan's streets, that palpable force of the city that allows you to sink into your thoughts and run away with your memory amid the pulse of the crowd, the pain from her Prada shoes became all too real around 44th, and a glance at her watch at the intersection told her it was time to grab a quick ride home. Joey would be ready, and Phoebe would be waiting for her to unlock her apartment to grab Emma's pajamas, toothbrush, and a change of clothes. It had been decided that Emma would stay the night with Phoebe and Mike and return the next day. Emma wanted to bake Phoebe's special chocolate chip cookies, and far be it from Rachel to keep flour, sugar and eggs in abundance in the pantry, although the chocolate chips themselves wouldn't be a problem.  
  
Now, tugging the vestibule door to her apartment door open and dashing up the stairs, silently cursing Prada, she is ten minutes late, and can almost see Joey's mock-stern face reprimanding her before it gives way to a silly grin and forgives her shyly, slightly embarrassed at it's own game of pretending to be mad. Breathless, she rounds the corner to find the door to apartment 19 open, Emma's voice drifting out of it, jabbering excitedly about something.  
  
"Hey, Ems," says Rachel as she enters the apartment. Emma is in her usual spot, on Joey's lap in the barcalounger, and Ross is perched on a barstool with his jacket over his knee, watching his daughter's enthusiasm with a bemused smile.  
  
After all these years, Joey's apartment looks the same. He says it is because he likes it the way it is, and doesn't see any reason to change it, but Rachel has always sensed that there is some deeper reason why he has kept everything so stubbornly the same. It is as if he is holding on to something, a memory that is fading not only with time, but with every seemingly small and insignificant modification to his home, like changing where he puts the mail, or making space for the laptop that he has finally given into buying. Rachel, after finding a perfume of hers not yet discarded from Joey's medicine cabinet, has only sometimes dared to think that she is the reason, the memory he cannot let go of. After all, it was her that he had fallen in love with, and perhaps it was her that had been the only one to love him back. And it has become all too clear that she will never live with him again, now that she and Emma have their own place and Ross is thrilled that there is distance between her and Joey, however short the walk between their doors. Rachel, too, is content with the distance. It keeps Ross at bay, and those lingering questions that rest in her friends' eyes from ever being voiced. There are nights, though, when Rachel has slipped on her bathrobe and has one hand on the doorknob, ready to knock on Joey's door and sleep in her old room in his apartment, his breathing floating heavy and comforting through the wall. She pauses, usually, and turns reluctantly around, settling instead for her dreams, and her bed in apartment 17, wide and always half-empty.  
  
"Look mommy!" cries Emma, proudly holding up a navy blue t-shirt that says 'Yankee's' on the front and 'Soriano 12' on the back. "Joey got it for me." She slides off his lap and runs to show Rachel, who is giving Joey a you-shouldn't-have look.  
  
"That's great, Emma." She looks at the back. "Soriano, huh?" she says, then laughs. "Who the heck is he?" Emma and Joey both shoot her quizzical looks. "Okay, evidently I should know who he is . . ."  
  
Behind her, Ross clears his throat. "Uh, Rach? Alfonso Soriano, one of the best second basemen *ever*?" Rachel gives him glare and Joey bits his lip while Ross continues, "Yeah, Soriano has one of the best records in baseball, a .314 average, 38 homeruns, only *seven* errors this season. He's on fire!"  
  
Finally cracking, Joey turns to Rachel, whispering, "Yeah, and so are his pants. I just told him all that stuff like two seconds ago."  
  
Rachel laughs, and picks up Emma.  
  
"Alright, Little Miss Soriano, let's get you packed up for a night at Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Mike's. Sound good, sweetie?" She plants a kiss on her cheek, and Ross comes over to do the same on her other cheek. Emma giggles, delighted.  
  
Her eyes glowing at her new nickname, Emma nods vigorously. "Aunt Phoebe!" she exclaims, and pushes her self out of Rachel's grasp. In a flash she is out the door, down the hall, and tugging vigorously on the door handle of apartment 17, her glossy dark waves bouncing along after her.  
  
"What do you say to Joey, Ems?" Ross says, calling to his daughter out the open door.  
  
There is a pause, Emma evidently pondering what to say to Joey. Rachel can picture her, one hand reaching up to grasp the door handle, the other coming to rest on her chin, her eyes cast to the ceiling, brow knitted, thinking.  
  
And then it comes.  
  
"Thanks for the Yankee shirt, Uncle Joey!" she yells, and Rachel can almost see her lips parting in a proud grin for remembering. She smiles, and joins Emma out in the hall, unlocking the door to the apartment, anticipation now in every action leading up to tonight and the scattering of the couples. Within minutes, Ross will join Charlie at a paleontology lecture, Phoebe will show up, waiting to pick up Emma, a grocery bag of cookie ingredients dangling at her side, and Joey and herself will be stepping into a cab, gripping the seat beneath them as it jolts into traffic, headed for Yankee Stadium.  
  
"Come on, Ems, let's get you ready."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Author's note:  
  
Thanks for reading and please leave a review.  
  
I know this chapter is a bit slow, and not a ton happens between Joey and Rachel. Give it time. My writing style is really different than most here at ff.net, but this is the only way the story is coming out. I hope all of you aren't bored off your socks. :0) Let me know if you are.  
  
Oh, and excuse my highly romantic view of New York, but I adore that place.  
  
Kristine 


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